


art in the underside

by the_sundance_kid



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Poetry, Queer Themes, This is just a dump of poems, a lot of these are about lesbianism deal with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sundance_kid/pseuds/the_sundance_kid
Summary: A collection of original poems.
Relationships: None
Kudos: 1





	1. How to Stay Alive

There is art in the underside 

of a sparrow’s wings

inspiration lies in the ability

to find beauty in plainness

and fall in love with an unknowable galaxy.

* * *

There is value in naïveté 

faith is the backbone of conscience 

because all knowledge sum total

is based on that which no one can prove.

* * *

You are a construct

your architecture is Escher’s daydream

always remember that you are no Rome

you can rebuild

you do not have to make sense

nothing is fixed and everything is fixable

you are a work of art

always remember you constructed yourself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first three are separate poems but are best read together.


	2. Artemis Blooming

A yew tree set her roots on the moon.  
“No, sweet  
thing,  
you cannot grow here,”  
a passing star-sailor  
whispered.

But sound does not travel through the void  
and so the yew tree never knew fear. The sun  
still shone  
on her leaves. 

No amount of disbelief  
could un-make  
the rich moon-soil  
for all its pale power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are welcome, as always.


	3. Ventriloquism and Ocean Brine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trio of poems inspired by the ocean.

Ghost gray in the twilight

The moon draws our lips together

As it draws the tide to kiss the shore. 

Like fish caught on ethereal fishhooks

we are eternally drawn closer

unstable stars in unstable orbit

until at last our mouths meet 

the breath of life passes from one pair of lungs to another and back again

and again

and again.

* * *

I toss my words into the sea

and wait for them to wash up on the shore again

in an order only the tide could have conceived. 

The waves tickle my bare toes 

(cut and bruised from beach glass)

and they follow me when I dance away.

* * *

I have never seen the ocean

but I know its moods and currents. Billions

of years have passed

since the first speck 

of life

germinated in its briny depths

but we still carry the sea inside us.   
  


It’s in the sweat that drips down my temples (I’m working up a new Pacific)

it’s in the salt-iron tang of blood in my mouth

it’s in the womb

a little ocean miracle.   
  


The sea is a part of me

I have never seen

but I know—

dust unto dust—

I will someday return 

to the arms of the planet 

and the waves of her ocean

will rock me

finally

to one last sleep. 


	4. If the World Were Flat

In the wee hours of a clear winter morning  
so early that the sun is still asleep   
and the moon has yet to close her eye,   
I am backing out of my driveway.   
My brakes and their groaning are the only sound   
in the world. 

The metallic taste of lukewarm water  
is overstaying its welcome in my mouth  
and the sharp smell of cold  
is the only thing that’s pierced my stuffy nose in weeks. 

I creep up the street  
the lampposts are still lit  
they look like Van Gogh’s stars against   
a realistic backdrop  
of a suburban night sky  
a wonderfully garish contrast   
between blue and orange. 

The neighborhood is a maze   
even to a person who’s lived there   
their entire life  
but soon the twists and turns   
and detours  
come to an end  
and an endless road is stretching out ahead of me. 

I drive and I drive  
and the view out the windows blurs until  
I cannot even make out the greyscale shadow-upon-shadow  
of an oak tree against the sky. 

The road hasn’t turned in hours. 

There is nothing in the passenger’s seat. 

There is something in the passenger’s seat. 

I do not turn to look. 

The road does not turn to save me. 

I am barreling towards the edge of the world.


	5. Yearly Basement Flooding

The girl crept out of the ocean without a sound  
and I did not hear her open my door. She  
made herself a place  
carved it with fingernails already worn short  
in the walls of my house  
and soon she was   
a load-bearing place. 

The girl who crept out of the ocean  
and made her new home and mine  
did not speak with words like you or I  
she spoke with her hands  
with her body  
and the things she said to me late at night  
holding up the weight of my house and us inside it  
were beautiful things. 

And I had never understood the heart  
as a metaphor for love  
until I understood that it isn’t a metaphor  
until she had made mine her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m still writing!


	6. The Girl Who Crept Out of the Ocean

The girl crept out of the ocean without a sound  
and I did not hear her open my door.   
She made herself a place  
carved it with fingernails worn short  
in the walls of my house  
and soon she was   
a load-bearing place. 

The girl who crept out of the ocean  
and made her new home in mine  
did not speak with words like you or I  
she spoke with her hands  
with her body  
and the things she said to me late at night  
holding up the weight of our house and us inside it  
were beautiful things. 

And I had never understood the heart  
as a metaphor for love  
until I understood that it isn’t a metaphor  
until she had made mine her home.


End file.
